


breathing is as easy as clockwork

by majesdane



Series: we tell our stories differently [1]
Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Character Study, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Original Character Death(s), POV Minor Character, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25920895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: Metaphorically speaking, she really thinks she might be dying.| A small character study, set pre-canon.
Relationships: Izadora & Anacostia Quartermaine, Izadora/Anacostia Quartermaine
Series: we tell our stories differently [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919194
Comments: 21
Kudos: 83





	breathing is as easy as clockwork

as the summer moves to autumn, / as we, with sappho, move towards death.  
— kenneth rexroth, "when we with sappho"

* * *

Izadora thinks she may be dead.

Dead, or dying. She isn't sure. She's obviously been dead before. And, literally speaking, everyone is always dying, every minute of the day. 

But metaphorically speaking, she really thinks she might be dying. 

What other sensation can it be — to stand at the front door with her mother and suddenly feel the ground give way under her, as an officer she doesn't recognize speaks in muted tones. It must be dying, certainly, to lie on her sister's former bed each night, staring blankly up at the ceiling, until finally exhaustion gives way to sleep. 

When she wakes in the mornings, her eyes feel swollen and sore.

She's horribly relieved the first time she goes a whole day without crying. It's an awful, marvelous feeling, to just _stop_ , finally. Stop crying. Stop feeling. It's a kind of numbness, like she's been plunged into a tub of ice water. 

She can — or at least, imagines she can — see herself as her sister might have been. Lying on her back in a field somewhere, thousands and thousands of miles away. The night sky above, stars glittering like diamonds in the velvety blackness. The sky pressing down on her, suffocatingly so; all the air forced from her crushed lungs. 

Her sister had been out doing reconnaissance. The unit was caught by surprise. 

On the living room mantle is a picture of her: Astoreth. It's one of her army photos, the same one that was on display at the funeral. Izadora stares at the photo often, trying to see the sister she once knew. She doesn't recognize the stranger on display; the solemn expression and stiff pose, immaculate in her dress blues.

The photo's only a year old; it was taken when Astoreth was promoted to lieutenant. She'd climbed the ranks faster than anyone else in her year. 

Astoreth was a Necro, like all L'Amaras have been, dating back centuries. One of the oldest bloodlines to serve under General Alder. Not quite High Atlantics — though Astoreth fit in with them perfectly. She was clever and charming. She worked hard. She always seemed able to sing Seeds perfectly, even after only hearing them once. 

But she was _fun_ too. Their family lived on base; when she had free time, and Izadora didn't have school, Astoreth would take her around base. She'd tell Izadora stories about the things they'd done in training that week or show off some new Work she'd learned. 

Izadora remembers being ten years old and tagging behind Astoreth, then a sophomore in War College, as they tramped through the woods bordering Fort Salem. The heady scent of earth and pine lingering in the muggy August air, the buzz of swarming mosquitoes in their ears. And then Astoreth, kneeling over the corpse of a fox, beckoning Izadora to come close. When she sang a low, choral seed, Izadora gasped and watched in astonishment at the sight of death cap mushrooms sprouting from the fox's body. 

_Can't,_ Astoreth had teased with a smug grin after Izadora begged to be taught how to do it. _It's a secret._

Izadora thinks of the lightness in Astoreth's eyes, the lazy curve of her smile.

But none of that is in the photo. Just a glassy stare and a set jaw.

*

Three days after she turns eighteen, she answers the Call.

She thinks of Astoreth as she does.

For a moment she's eight years old again, sitting cross-legged on Astoreth's bed, staring with wide-eyed wonderment at the medal carving itself out of thin air in a spray of autumnal sparks. Her sister, standing tall, shoulders thrown back, hands clasped behind her, speaking the pledge in a strong, measured tone. Already a proud, dutiful soldier.

The medal is warm against Izadora's palm. She curls her fingers around it, squeezing tight, and brings her fist to her mouth. Closing her eyes, she murmurs a prayer — to the Goddess. Or Astoreth.

Both, maybe. 

_I won't forget. I'll make you proud. I swear it._

*

Izadora's known Anacostia Quartermaine her entire life.

Most fosterlings live at Fort Salem, but Anacostia was one of the few Izadora was friendly with while growing up. They were never particularly close, but there's an often inevitable, natural ease that can grow out of years of passing familiarity.

Which is exactly why they're hanging out together on _this_ particular Sunday, two months into Basic.

They're in Izadora's room, on account of her having a single. Anacostia is laid out on the floor, twisting herself into stretches and grumbling about her sore muscles.

Not for the first time, Izadora's grateful that she's a Necro. She's never been particularly athletic, and her body aches at the very thought of having to endure hours of physical training. The most Necros usually have to do is run laps around the perimeter, and that's only to work off a demerit — which Izadora's never had to do. 

Anacostia, now flat on her back, gazes up at Izadora. "Beltane's next month. Are you excited?" 

Izadora's stretched out on the bed skimming through the _Fort Salem Rules and Regulations_ handbook. She's read it many times before — paging through Astoreth's worn, dog-eared copy — but there's a comforting familiarity in reading it once again. Like listening to a favorite song. 

Truthfully, she hasn't given Beltane much thought. "Well . . . "

She's only half-listened during the multiple times Anacostia's roommate, Berryessa, has rambled excitedly about it. Izadora doesn't share their enthusiasm for the impending visit by the male witches. She hates forced socialization, and, more than that, she's dreading the idea that any of them might try to flirt with her.

"It won't be that bad," Anacostia says. "You can hang out with me all day if you want. And if any guys flirt with you, I'll bravely decline in your stead." She pauses, tilting her head, arching an eyebrow suggestively. "Or take them off your hands."

"Gross," Izadora says, biting back a smile.

*

The Reel pairs Izadora up with two different girls: a muscular, grey-eyed Blaster from Anacostia's platoon and a lithe Knower with dyed cherry-red hair who Izadora doesn't know at all.

Not that it matters. 

In the next day's early morning sunlight, flush with sudden energy, Izadora admires her newly shiny mark.

*

She didn't expect to be summoned to General Alder's office following the Basic Training graduation ceremony.

But here she is, perched stiffly in her dress blues, fingers laced together in her lap. 

Sergeant Devereaux, the head Necro teacher, had delivered Alder's request as soon as the ceremony ended. 

Sitting in Alder's office, Izadora's heart races in equal parts nervousness and excitement.

It's not as though she's never spoken to Alder before — she has, many times, while in the company of Anacostia. But those have been brief, polite interactions, and this feels different.

It feels . . . _formal_. Izadora can't even begin to imagine what Alder needs to talk to her about.

She watches as Alder finishes making notes in her over-sized, leather-bound ledger, capping her writing off with a wide flourish. There's something oddly charming about the fact that she still uses old-fashioned fountain pens. Izadora can imagine her writing with an old quill pen under pale candlelight, and —

"Private L'Amara," Alder begins, startling Izadora out of her thoughts. "I think a congratulations is in order first: War College, glowing assessments from your Basic instructors. Well done."

"I've just tried to do my best, ma'am."

"I've no doubt. Your sister was an exceptional cadet as well." Alder leans forward on her desk, hands clasped in front of her. "Needless to say, you've made quite the impression. Under any other circumstances, I'd say you were shaping up to be a fine soldier."

Izadora hesitates. She isn't sure she likes where this is going.

Alder chuckles, as if sensing Izadora's unease. "There's more to the military than just combat missions, Private," she says, standing and circling the desk. She stands in front of Izadora, leaning back on her hands. "We need people back here on base as well. Which is why I'm recommending that you be added to the Necro facilities staff following your successful completion of War College."

"Oh." Izadora turns this announcement over in her mind, unsure of how to react. "What does that mean?"

"You'll be an instructor, mostly," Alder says. "Though you may be called upon to do other work as needed. Until you get more experience, you'll be assisting your superior officers."

Izadora forces a tight smile, trying to disguise her dismay. She knows she should feel honored to have been hand-picked by Alder like this, but all she feels is disappointment. This isn't what she planned for herself.

Since Conscription Day, she's only ever thought about excelling at Basic, graduating from War College with honors, and fast-tracking her way through the ranks due to exemplary combat service.

But being an _instructor_? Being studious and helping out her fellow cadets is one thing. It's an entirely different thing to make it her whole military career. 

Alder reaches forward and straightens the War College pin on Izadora's uniform.

"Your sister was a talented soldier," Alder says, in a kind, almost motherly tone. "And undoubtedly you wanted to follow in her footsteps. But I assure you, your contributions in this area will be just as meaningful."

Izadora knows that Alder is surely right. Good soldiers don't just materialize out of thin air; as clever as Astoreth was, even she needed the guidance of her instructors to excel. And yet — 

There's no glamour in it; no prestige.

She can already see her life stretching out in front of her, the endless days spent on base, never having the chance to experience the battle-hardened camaraderie that Astoreth always talked about.

Izadora's not naive enough to have any sort of romantic notions about combat; she knows it's all blood and grit and bone-deep tiredness.

But that doesn't mean she doesn't want it.

*

"You're thinking," Anacostia says.

"Yes, of course."

"Harder than usual, I mean." Anacostia's mouth crooks up into a slight smile. "I can see it in your eyes."

They're sitting on the bed in Anacostia's newly-assigned dorm room. It's nicer than Izadora's room, which hasn't changed since Basic. It would make Izadora jealous if she hadn't had the privilege of a single room to begin with. 

"Come on," Anacostia presses, nudging Izadora with her elbow. "What is it?"

Izadora sighs and relays her meeting with Alder from a day earlier.

"I'm going to be the only one in the whole L'Amara bloodline who'll never see even a minute of combat," she concludes glumly, staring at her hands. "I _know_ that's not a bad thing. Honestly, I think my mom will be thrilled to hear it, but . . . I wanted to be like _her_ , you know?"

Astoreth.

The decorated hero, cut down before her prime.

The person Izadora promised to make proud.

"Hey, I get it," Anacostia says quietly, nodding. Her dark hickory eyes are soft with understanding. "But you're _not_ her."

Izadora hums weakly in agreement, still unconvinced. 

"Listen." Anacostia climbs off the bed and stands in front of Izadora. "Alder personally chose you for this position, right? How many other girls in our year can say that? That _means_ something. And Alder knows what she's doing; you have to trust her decision."

Anacostia looks so brilliant standing there, arms folded decisively, eyes shining. Her enthusiasm is so infectious, Izadora can't help but feel buoyed by her comments. She feels her disappointment dissolve into something sweeter: determination.

It's just as Anacostia said: Alder chose her for this.

Alder chose _her_.

Izadora's not going to let this opportunity go to waste.

*

Izadora's coming from a meeting with her senior Necro advisor in the central administration building when she spots an old but familiar face: Petra Bellweather.

Petra must be here on a special occasion; she's in her dress blues, looking as pristine as always. She walks with long, confident strides, the steady clip of her boots on the marble floor echoing off the rich oak paneling of the main entrance. 

Izadora hurries over to greet her. 

"Major Bellweather," Izaodra says excitedly, folding her hands behind her back. "Private L'Amara — sorry to interrupt, but it's good to see you again, ma'am. I thought a hello was in order."

"Well, if it isn't Astoreth's little sister, all grown up." Petra looks Izadora over, assessing her. "You look just like her."

Izadora's heard that many times before. When she was younger, it used to bother her. Now, she relishes it; she even styles her hair the same way: a reverse braided bun. It's her own small way of keeping Astoreth close.

Her gaze falls to the charms sewn onto Petra's sash. She feels a stab of melancholy when she notices one in particular: a bone-white feather nestled between a smattering of tiny bronze pieces. 

Astoreth had stitched that same charm on her own sash. 

_On our first tour, there was a Fixer from the Cession in our Unit,_ she explained to Izadora once, tilting it up with her thumb. _She made them all for us. It's meant to symbolize bravery._

There's sadness in seeing the charm again now, but also a kind of solace.

It's an acknowledgement that Astoreth was _here_ , that she was a part of something, even if only for a brief moment.

"How long has it been?" Petra asks.

"Nearly five years."

Izadora can hardly believe that it's been so long.

She remembers being fourteen, awkward and shy, harboring a massive crush on Petra.

Astoreth's first tour had also been Petra's as well. They both earned accommodations for exceptional performances and bonded over the experience. All of her life Astoreth was surrounded by High Atlantics; it only made sense that she would eventually befriend the most prestigious one of all.

Izadora loved it when Petra came over for dinner; after a few glasses of witch-tear-laced alcohol, Petra and Astoreth would recount stories from their missions. Petra was charming and magnetic, and she told the stories with a magnificent flair that enraptured Izadora.

Petra was beautiful and accomplished. She was destined for great things, like all Bellweathers before her. Even Astoreth spoke about her in nothing but glowing terms.

Izaodra had spent hours daydreaming about fighting alongside Petra, or attending elegant Officers' Balls together, just as Astoreth did.

Her youthful crush faded long ago, but her admiration for Petra still smolders.

Petra's reputation as a formidable leader has only grown in the years since they've last seen each other. Izadora would expect nothing less from someone of the illustrious Bellweather line. 

"Are you stationed here at Fort Salem?" Petra asks.

"Yes, ma'am. War College. Top of my class." She grins with self-satisfaction. "Alder has a teaching position waiting for me when I graduate."

Petra makes a small sound of approval, smiling fondly. She rests a hand on Izadora's shoulder. It feels strange, but also comforting.

"I know your sister would be very proud."

*

Anacostia's never celebrated Samhain.

It's not like Beltane, where participation is required. There's always an evening ball hosted by the Necro department, but Izadora's never been. She's always spent the day with family. But this year she's going to be the only one on base; the youngest, left behind. 

"Spend the day with me," Izadora suggests to Anacostia, a week before the holiday. 

Izadora's visited Astoreth's grave many times over the years, always with fresh-cut marigolds or chrysanthemums in hand. The white kind, Astoreth's favorite.

Izadora's never gone with Anacostia to visit her parents though, and she watches soberly as Anacostia kneels in front of the headstones, murmuring something to herself.

Anacostia hardly ever talks about her parents; nothing more than a rare off-hand remark about something from her childhood. Izadora only vaguely knows about the circumstances surrounding their deaths. She's never asked Anacostia anything directly, afraid of intruding on something that felt delicate and private.

In the five years since Astoreth's death, Izadora's found herself refraining from mentioning her more and more. She thinks of her often, but speaks of her less. Izadora's hardly the only one on base who has lost family members, and, with age, she's grown self-conscious of her grief. 

"Thank you," Anacostia says, as they make their way back to the dorms. "It feels . . . different, today. "

"The veil between worlds is thin on Samhain," Izadora says, reaching for Anacostia's hand and threading their fingers together. "I always dream of Astoreth the night before: a memory of us running through the golden wheat fields near the Bat hangers. I never remember her clearer than in that dream."

Anacostia is quiet for a long while. 

"I dreamt of them too," she says. "I was so young, but I saw them as perfectly as if they were standing in front of me. I could smell my mom's perfume." Her voice is high and wobbly, as if she's fighting back tears.

The whole time, she never lets go of Izadora's hand.

*

Despite her general disinterest in Fort Salem parties, Izadora always looks forward to the chance to be out of uniform. It feels like slipping into someone else's skin — she could be any other girl on any other night. Even a civilian. The thought is thrilling and illicit. 

For this particular event, she's chosen a floor-length black dress, trimmed with red and gold and speckled with tiny white stars. Her hair is pulled into a loose side braid. A thin wicket circlet, adorned with autumn leaves in rich hues of crimson and amber completes the look.

Anacostia wears a suit. The ombre fabric is the color of an October sunset, coral-orange fading into midnight blue. She's knotted her hair into box braids.

Izadora's seen Anacostia dressed up like this only once before, at Beltane two years prior. Now, just like she had then, Izadora finds herself blushing. 

She's always found Anacostia to be stunningly pretty. But that's as far as she's ever let those types of thoughts go — in part because she isn't entirely sure if she _wants_ to entertain them any further. She's afraid of spoiling what the two of them have.

Besides, Izadora is fairly convinced Anacostia harbors no such feelings of attraction for her. Not that Izadora's ever noticed, at least — and even if she was truly that obtuse, Izadora is _certain_ Berryessa wouldn't have hesitated to make the situation clear. 

The ball is grandiose in its outdoor setting, the edges of the clearing marked by blazing torches. The nearby lake looks less ominous than usual, reflecting the fire and moonlight. They drink too much cyser mead and they dance, slow and easy. Even in the chill night air, the alcohol and the feeling of Anacostia against her make Izadora uncomfortably warm.

Later, she isn't sure exactly how it happens.

One moment they're back in Izadora's dorm room, twirling each other, dizzy and laughing — 

And then — 

Izadora's kissing Anacostia.

And Anacostia is kissing her back.

The press of Anacostia's mouth is warm and wet and inviting. She _tastes_ like fall, all honey and apples. Her tongue sliding against Izadora's sets off fireworks in Izadora's stomach.

Wordlessly, Izadora knits her fingers into the soft fabric of Anacostia's blazer and tugs her in closer, shortening the gap between them.

Izadora isn't sure what they're doing.

Or, rather, she's very certain of what they're doing.

What she doesn't know is if they should stop.

It's probably a bad idea. They've known each other their whole lives. Izadora won't be able to bear it if things are awkward afterwards. She doesn't want this to be anything more or less than what it is: a delicious, stolen moment. A mutual acknowledgement of a desire to be touched, to be seen, without definitions or complications. 

"I can _hear_ you thinking," Anacostia says, against Izadora's mouth. Izadora can feel her smiling. "Now's not the time."

They stumble to the bed, shedding their fancy outfits along the way.

When Anacostia's hand slips under the elastic band of her underwear, Izadora gasps at the touch. Her nails dig into the soft skin of Anacostia's forearm.

She can feel the flex of Anacostia's muscles under her touch and her mind trails off. She thinks of the connected tissue, the spidery veins full of hot blood. In her mind she traces a path to Anacostia's heart and wonders if it's beating as hard as her own. 

Anacostia watches her intently, fingers working in slow, slight circles.

Izadora holds the gaze until she can't — it's just too much. She closes her eyes, head thrown back against the pillows. She sighs as Anacostia kisses along the curve of her throat, fingers sliding and pressing. Anacostia's breath comes in short pants, hot and damp. She smells like apples and sweat and commissary soap. 

Izadora comes quietly, biting down on a knuckle.

Anacostia kisses Izadora's face, her neck, her shoulders. 

A strange, new feeling blooms in Izadora's chest.

Something so nearly close to love —

*

The news is delivered on a drab Monday morning. 

_Irene L'Amara: killed in action._

Strange, how this sort of grief always feels new. 

Izadora doesn't cry. Not right away.

She hasn't seen her mother in nearly eighteen months now; can scarcely recall the last time they had a real conversation. Izadora has spent her whole life accepting the constant distances between them.

But this is different — now she knows for certain that they will never speak again. Never share a laugh. Never visit Astoreth's grave together on Samhain, holding fresh-cut flowers. 

"Oh, my daughter," Alder says solemnly, when Izadora relays the news later that day. Alder puts her hand on Izadora's cheek, bowing her head respectfully. "May your mother travel home and sing the Song of the Spiral with our foremothers."

She presses a kiss to Izadora's forehead.

Izadora's always thought highly of Alder. But in this moment, Izadora understands why Anacostia reveres her; as intimidating as Alder is, there's a quiet kindness in her too. Her steel-blue eyes are soft and sympathetic. It was so long ago — entire centuries — that it's easy to forget that Alder's lost her family too.

Alder knows; one day you can have someone, then the next, they're gone. 

For the first time that day, Izadora feels the sharp sting of tears in her eyes. 

That evening, Anacostia lays down beside Izadora, the bed dipping and creaking with her weight.

"I know how it is," Anacostia murmurs. Her lashes flutter against Izadora's skin like the dry brush of butterfly wings. As soft as a sigh. "You're not alone. I'm here. I'm here."

She kisses the tears away from Izadora's cheeks and strokes her hair until she falls asleep.

When Izadora stirs the next morning, Anacostia is still with her. She's standing by the window, and when she turns in place, the morning sun glows behind her like a halo.

*

She's not supposed to play favorites.

It's easier said than done.

Every year, there's always one or two cadets that stand out to her, and Izadora can't help but take personal interest in their growth. She likes the satisfied rush of knowing she's helped craft a cadet into an exceptional soldier. Even Alder herself has recruits that she showers with special attention, Izadora thinks, in an effort to justify her own actions — even if she does feel a little guilty about it.

This year is no different.

There's one girl in particular that catches Izadora's interest right away: a slight little thing, with milky skin and dark hair cropped just above her shoulders. She stands with her shoulders straight, her jaw set firmly in what could, in some sense, be read as defiant.

_Scylla Ramshorn: orphan, Dodger parents._

Izadora reads the file with interest. She's known plenty of orphans, but she's never met a Dodger. Or a former Dodger, in Scylla's case. Reading further, she finds the report detailing the Ramshorns' deaths. And Izadora's familiar with the duties of the Military Police, but she wasn't aware they were allowed to use deadly force on any other witches but Spree.

She feels a surge of pity for Scylla; for a young girl who's lost so much, so soon. 

But something else draws her to Scylla, as if they were bound by an invisible thread.

Scylla reminds Izadora of Astoreth. 

And Scylla looks nothing like Izadora's sister, but she smiles like her. She speaks like her, in lilting, honeyed tones. Her eyes, as blue and deep as the ocean, shine as brightly as Astoreth's dark hazel ones once did.

Though where Astoreth was reserved, Scylla is forward. Scylla thinks, she _prods_ and challenges, but Astoreth never strayed from unquestioning obedience. 

Scylla's as alike Astoreth as she is not. 

And despite herself, Izadora can't help but be charmed, feeling soft, sisterly interest taking root.

*

"Non-Canon Work is strictly forbidden," Izadora says, adopting a cool, authoritative tone. 

Scylla bites her lip and nods curtly, eyes darting away. 

Lately, she's been helping Izadora in the Necro laboratory with simple tasks. Izadora mostly just enjoys the company. Necro Work, so solitary by nature, can get rather lonely at times. Scylla's a diligent student who shows a keen interest in Izadora's ramblings about her studies.

Moments ago, one of Izadora's experiments in the lab caught fire; before she could react, Scylla mumbled something in an unfamiliar language. The effect was instantaneous: the flames swallowed themselves up, like a collapsing star.

It was only after a long second that Izadora realized what happened.

She hates reprimanding students, even when necessary. It makes her feel awkward. And she's certain that Scylla's . . . _unusual_ upbringing has made her so accustomed to Non-Canon Work that it's more a reflex than anything else. It doesn't seem fair to come down harshly on a girl who's hardly had a chance to acclimate to proper witch culture.

And she _did_ just stop Izadora's lab from going up in flames. 

So Izadora softens her chastising with a small smile and says, "Despite official military rules, I'm of the opinion that the more resources one has, the more capable they are of doing their job. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I think that's a fair assessment," Scylla says thoughtfully, sounding relieved. "After all, our enemies — like the Spree — would certainly never hesitate to use forbidden Work."

"That's true. But it's not just about combat; we're scientists, too. And sometimes science requires a little something more. "

Scylla cocks her head. "Does that mean you'll teach me about them?"

Izadora remembers being nineteen and starting War College and wanting to devour every little scrap of knowledge she could scrounge up. 

"We'll see," Izadora says. "For now, let's just focus on your actual studies."

"Yes ma'am," Scylla chirps, grinning.

And then, Goddess help her, Scylla has the audacity to _wink_.

Oh.

Izadora definitely likes this one.

**Author's Note:**

> this was mostly inspired by emilie leclerc's [comments](https://fortsalemwitchinghour.buzzsprout.com/1010845/4527746-ep-14-izadora-i-adore-ya-interview-with-emilie-leclerc) regarding izadora's backstory, where her opinion was that izadora had lost someone close to her (like a sister) when she was younger and that was why she acted particularly motherly towards raelle. the rest was just endless indulgence of referencing canon events. i hope people caught the tiny willa reference!
> 
> deepest gratitude to [jacinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacinto) and [here4rizzles](http://www.tumblr.com/here4rizzles) for being the most helpful, as always, and to [holeybubushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeybubushka) for also giving it a look over. i assure you, all errors are mine alone. lastly, i have to thank the mfsri for coming up with izadora's last name and emilie giving it her stamp of approval.


End file.
